A Study In Perspective
by RainyDays-and-DayDreams
Summary: The same scene, from the point of view of three different men. Johnlock, T for language. WIP
1. An Argument and Rainstorm

_**A/N: And I'm back, with a nicer story. It isn't angst, but it's interesting, to say the least.**_

_**I've has this idea for a few months. My English teacher and I had a bit of a tiff when she claimed that you can't write a story in the second person, and I argued you can. I though of this- what if I told the same scene, but from three different character's points of view, and in the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd person? **_

_**So here you have it. This is more style than substance, I'm afraid, and I already know I'm rubbish at the 1st person, but this is my first time trying to write in the 2nd, and I found it... addicting. **_

_**Ramble to be posted at the bottom.**_

_**So here you have it. Enjoy, and Mrs. G, I hope this proves you wrong.**_

_**DISCLAIMER: You see those characters down there? Do you recognize them? If so, then I'm afraid they aren't mine. Sorry.**_

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><p><strong>1st PERSON: DI LESTRADE<strong>

I sighed as I watched the two men work. The overcast weather certainly didn't improve my mood, and as I watched, it became clear that the two men had been arguing. Great. Another thing to add to my already crappy day.

I should have just decided to take a sick say when I woke up half an hour late this morning. But I struggled through traffic, being unable to find a single matching pair of socks, spilling coffee on my shirt and having two new cases hit my desk the second I arrived at work, only to arrive at a fresh crime scene, and find that the two men who I needed to be on top form had been arguing.

Yeah, fuck me.

I watch the two men as they stay a certain distance away from each other, how painfully polite they are to each other, how clipped and harsh their words are.

And suddenly I'm angry.

I had plenty of arguments with my wife before we divorced. These two will have their arguments. But they can't let it effect them professionally. I don't want to talk to them. But I will if I have to.

I take a deep breath, breathing in the damp air. I close my eyes for a minute, hoping maybe I'll open them again and find today was just a bad dream, and that I'm still in bed. I hear the sound of someone's ringtone (Take On Me, really? It's a classic, but still...) and find that my trick hasn't worked. I sigh and open my eyes again.

Those two are almost touching now, but one can feel the tension between them.

God, I'd kill for a cigarette.

I square my shoulders and walk to them. I don't want to have this talk with them, god knows. But I need to.

But no, one of them's said something, and now they're kissing (over a dead body) and damn it all to hell, now I'm going to have to go over there and remind them that they are at my crime scene, and in public, and to please keep the public displays of affection to a minimum, but no, now they've stopped.

They're staring into each other's eyes now, and it's all I can do not to puke. Or smile. I could still go over there and remind them they are in public, but I don't have the heart anymore. Instead I make a note to myself to pick up more nicotine patches later.

I turn around so they don't see me smile.

It starts to rain.

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><p><strong>2nd PERSON: JOHN WATSON<strong>

You'd fought with him that morning. He'd left fingers in the jam, and damn it, as much as you loved him, fingers in the jam were not acceptable.

You both said things you regretted now. Just as things were coming to a head, he'd gotten a call, and had left you, standing alone in the middle of the flat, with barely enough time to grab your coat before running off after him.

Now you are out in the cold, overcast weather, and you wonder if he can feel the waves of tension and pent up frustration rolling off of you. Maybe he can, because he stays away from you, stays overly formal with you.

"Doctor Watson," he says, "what do you think of the puncture wounds to her neck?"

You scowl. Since when have you been "Doctor Watson"?

Two can play at that game. "Well, Mr. Holmes," you begin, kneeling next to the body, "I'd say they're some form of injection, meaning that should could have been drugged before she died. She didn't use drugs, so that is the best solution." You look at him expectantly.

He scowls, you note with pleasure. That means you were right.

And then he deduces everything about the girl, everything she's ever done, and you can't help it, damn it to hell. "Brilliant," you mutter against your will, "Fantastic, amazing."

You blush when you remember you're supposed to be angry at him but said that anyways. He looks smug for a moment before continuing his deductions.

You hear a ringtone go off somewhere. You wonder whose it is.

You look at the body, try to see what he sees, but your eyes wander involuntarily back to him. He really is beautiful, you think, when he's like this. In his element. Nevermind his element is dead bodies, at least he has one. You didn't have one before you met him.

Now? You are in your element when you're around him. And that's good enough for you.

Suddenly he's looking at you and you realize you were an idiot. Well, he was an idiot to start, but he's always an idiot. He realizes something at the same time you do, you think (you can never be sure with him) and he straightens up and stares at you.

You stare at him. He stares at you. This continues for a few seconds. It's rather tedious, you think, and just when you are about to turn away because maybe he didn't realize something he leans in.

The kiss is abrupt, but nice. He doesn't apologize, but you don't either. He pulls away, leaving you slightly out of breath and he stares into your eyes again. He doesn't say anything still, but you see the question of forgiveness in his eyes. Or you think you do. You're never sure.

And maybe it's the fact you're never sure that makes you smile, a smile that says all is forgiven and that maybe you're sorry too.

It starts to rain.

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><p><strong>3rd PERSON: SHERLOCK HOLMES<strong>

Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man.

Some didn't even think he was a man at all. Those closest to him knew otherwise, of course, but sometimes he wondered himself.

That wasn't the problem, though. The current problem was his patience. Or rather, his lack of it. He hadn't wanted to wait for another jar of jam. He needed to store the fingers in something. He figured the jam would be okay, (even though he knew it wasn't) and if it wasn't (it wasn't) then he could buy John a new jar of jam (he couldn't and wouldn't). That had been his explanation.

John saw right through it, much to Sherlock's dismay. Maybe he had been teaching the doctor too many of his tricks.

Which was why he was now out with the man he loved, in the cold, overcast weather (which he didn't mind- this was his favorite type of weather, in fact) and they were refusing to speak.

Well, they were speaking. But Sherlock didn't know if it counted as speaking. Words came from their mouths, sure. Audible noises were heard and replied to. But they weren't speaking like they normally did. It was a robotic, overly-polite sort of manner with which they were speaking to one another.

And it was bothering the hell out of Sherlock. And distracting him. And, well, just generally annoying him.

He'd said he was sorry. Hadn't he? Maybe he hadn't.

He tries to convey his annoyance through his words. "Doctor Watson," he says, "what do you think of the puncture wounds to her neck?" He already knows the answer, of course.

When John responds in a similarly cold manner, and gets it right, he can't stop the scowl that spreads across his features.

And then John's praising him, doing what no one else has ever done before, and he realizes that he was an idiot. He should've apologized. He should've waited, damn his lack of patience, because John accepts him for who he is, and admires him, and that is something no one else has done ever before.

Sherlock looks up at John. He hears a ringtone go off, and he tries to say sorry with his eyes, what he can't say out loud. John looks at him, and Sherlock knows John isn't getting it.

So he does what seems to be the appropriate thing and kisses him.

John gets it. John forgives him. They gaze at each other, and Sherlock suddenly feels okay again.

It starts to rain.

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><p><em><strong>Rainy's Ramble: For those of you new to my work, hi. My name is Rainy. I like to ramble at the end of my stories. If you aren't interested, then you are under no means obligated to read this, but still please leave a review. It would make my day warmer and sunshine-ier. (That is a word. I made it up. It is in this ramble. Therefore, it is a word.) However, from what I am told, these are pretty funny and enjoyable, so it's your loss. <strong>_

_**Ah, hello again, readers! For those of you who are reading this because of Love Everlasting, my 30 Day OTP Challenge, I'd just like to apologize for the long wait. And the fact I haven't filled any of your gorgeous prompts. I tried, but this story and the one I posted previously would not leave my mind, and I was rendered utterly incapable of writing anything else until these stories were written. So, sorry about that. To new readers- welcome! Thanks for checking this out.**_

_**I'd like to say something. I have been sick since New Year's Eve, and as such, this was written single-draft, on my phone, over the course of several days. Considering this is basically me just telling the same scene over again three different ways, if there are any inconsistencies, typos, or errors, I apologize. Also, I'm American, and if there are any Americanisms, I apologize.**_

_**Now that that's out of the way...**_

_**OH MY GOD YOU GUYS SEASON THREE. *flails arms rapidly* I promise I won't post any spoilers (because I'm not THAT mean), but if you want to talk to me about it, message me. I have plenty to say. All I'm going to say for now is- HOLY SHIT IT IS AMAZING. **_

_**I curse a lot, if you can't tell. **_

_**So. I'm sick. I feel brain dead. I can barely breathe, and I've been bed-ridden for the past two days. Still, I was an idiot today and thought, well, why don't I start on my fifty-six APUSH terms due on Monday? It'll be something to do.**_

_**I got only seventeen done, and now I feel worse than before. But I need to do them, and just... bleh. History. You horrible, amazing thing, you. **_

_**However, my mother did buy me some grape juice, and she's leaving tomorrow, which means I'll be in charge of watching my brothers, which shouldn't be too hard. I've already located her pink snuggie and am prepared to steal it. So tomorrow, my agenda consists of finishing my APUSH homework, and starting work on a prompt or two. And then posting them.**_

_**Speaking of prompts...**_

_**I got another one today. Heidi (I've mentioned her previously) has read a parent!lock I started a long time ago, but wrote down on paper and never finished. Well, she loves it, so today she reblogged something on tumblr and mentioned me in the tag, which went something like this: "RRAAAAAIIIINNNNNYYYYY YOU NEED TO DO THIS YOU PROMISED ME YOU WOULD" (I, of course, substituted, Rainy for my real name). I responded with, "HOLY SHIT HEIDI FINE I'LL DO THE FUCKING PROMPT."... so tomorrow I'm going to try and write a one shot with that, and see how it goes. **_

_**Oh, and my stepbrother? The one with the potato cult? Yeah, he got a shirt for Christmas that says "Got Potato?". I feel like shooting something over this gift.**_

_**Who's up for starting a world-wide Anti-Potato League to stop his madness?**_

_**Hope to hear from you all soon.**_

_**PLEASE REVIEW. PLEASE. I AM BEGGING. I love them more than you can ever imagine.**_

_**Goodnight, or good morning,**_

_**Love, RainyDays-and-DayDreams**_

_***dances about to Come On Eileen* *flails and trips over sheets**__*****_

_**P.S. It has been suggested to me that I should turn this into a series. So I suppose I shall. Look for a new chapter soon. ;)**_


	2. Coffee-Shop Shootout

_**A/N: So. Hungrysherlock-wink suggested I turn this into a series. My friend Dino suggested them to be at a store of coffee shop of some sort when a shooting happens. Plot bunnies exploded across my mind. **_

_**As always, this is single draft, and I am a stupid American, so any mistakes are entirely mine. **_

_**Ramble to be posted at bottom. **_

_**Enjoy.**_

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><p><strong>1st PERSON: DI LESTRADE<strong>

I sighed and checked my watch again. Those two were late. Again.

I'd told them to meet me here twenty minutes ago. I arrived ten minutes after I said for them to show up, and they were still late. So I waited. I ordered a coffee. And I waited.

These two really did test my patience sometimes. Most of the time, actually, but that was beside the point.

I never could understand why they were always arrived precisely on time to crime scenes, but the moment I needed to talk to them about something up they did their very best to show up as late as physically possible.

Actually, I did understand, but that was beside the point.

I took a sip of my coffee as I waited for them to arrive. I looked around the place, wondering if any of these people hid any interesting secrets. Sherlock would he able to tell in an instant. I was forced to guess.

That was when the two walked in.

"Took you long enough!" I huffed, gesturing them over. Sherlock walked over with his usual air of superiority, while John seemed slightly embarrassed.

"Sorry it took so long, Greg, we just-"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, cutting them off. "Listen, we need to talk-"

And then gunfire erupted.

People started to scream, taking cover underneath chairs and tables, behind counters and other prices of furniture. I ducked down immediately, noticing John pulling Sherlock down as well.

Just as I'm about to call for back-up, a shot is fired, and I see the gunman fall down, dead.

"Mycroft," I hear Sherlock growl, and suddenly I understand. Sherlock's overprotective brother has stepped in and once again, saved the day.

I groan as I realize how much paperwork this is going to mean.

Across London, a man with an umbrella whistles contentedly to himself.

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><p><strong>2nd PERSON: JOHN WATSON<strong>

Goddammit, you were late again.

It wasn't as if you tried to be late. You tried to push your obnoxious and slow flatmate and boyfriend out the door on time. You tried to make sure you weren't kicked out of every cab you sat in. You tried to respect Greg's requested meet-up time, even when you both knew there was no chance in hell of you making it there on time.

So you're a tad upset with you sometimes inconsiderate git of a boyfriend when you arrive.

You try to make excuses, but Greg brushes them aside. You understand his frustration, but hope he realizes that you aren't the reason you and he are always late.

You sigh, and look around. Just because you want to show up to these meetings on time out of respect doesn't mean you enjoy them. They are nearly always Lestrade lecturing Sherlock on running off on cases without him, or begging you and him to help with paper work. Which isn't your job, as Sherlock constantly reminds him, to which he replies, "Well, it bloody should be!" and too have to okay peacemaker before one of them says something they might regret.

Just as you are settling into your seat, you hear gunshots go off.

"Sherlock," is your immediate, first thought, and you duck underneath the table, and grab him by his shirt and drag him down too. You reach for where your gun should be- dammit, why did you leave it at home?- and finding nothing, pull Sherlock's head into your chest and breathe.

You hear another gunshot.

Looking out, you see the shooter on the floor, dead, blood leaking from his body. You sigh with relief, because you know who shot the man, and you know Sherlock knows as well because he hisses "Mycroft," under his breath, and suddenly you laugh and then you kiss him. Because both of you are alive, and you think that's a cause for celebration.

Lestrade's still in too much shock to notice the events happening literally right underneath him. You'll find that funny layer, after you're over your adrenaline rush and done kissing the man you love.

Across London, a man with an umbrella whistles contentedly to himself.

* * *

><p><strong>3rd PERSON: SHERLOCK HOLMES<strong>

Lestrade called for Sherlock to meet him. How boring.

Sherlock doesn't mind when the meeting has something to do with a case, or even better, is at a crime scene. Sometimes, if he's excited enough, Sherlock and John will beat Lestrade to the crime scene.

But Sherlock knows this is not going to be one of those meetings. So can John really fault him for trying to make them as late as possible, to prolong their suffering?

Apparently he can.

Or, at least, that's what Sherlock draws from his boyfriend's irritated expression and demeanor throughout the (many) cab rides to the coffee shop.

When he finally arrives, he notices Lestrade's irritated expression. He looks around the coffee shop, and finds no one of interest.

He settles down into his seat and begins to drone out Lestrade and John.

Then the gunshots go off.

Sherlock honestly freezes for a moment. Every instinct is screaming to duck, to get down, but his mind is busy wondering who he had missed in his earlier examination of the fellow customers, and then decides he didn't- the shooter must have just walked in. Because Sherlock knows he would have been able to tell if one of the customers had been carrying a gun.

He feels John pull him down, sees John reach for his gun, and finding nothing there, bury his head into his chest. Suddenly Sherlock has a wool jumper in his face. He inhales deeply, enjoying the scent.

Another gunshot goes off.

Sherlock looks up to see the gunman dead, and he knows who is responsible in an instant. "Mycroft," he growls, because even though Sherlock is aware that one of his brother's employees most likely just saved their lives, he can't help but be annoyed by the interference.

And then John's laughing, and then he places his lips on his and suddenly Sherlock is okay with Mycroft interfering with this. Because he and John are alive and okay, and he smiles as the doctor's lips press against his. Maybe he'll thank Mycroft later.

He changes his mind almost instantaneously. They did have a feud to keep up, after all. Appearances and such.

Across London, a man with an umbrella whistles contentedly to himself.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Rainy's Ramble: *sing-songs* So, guess who's an emotional wreck? *breaks down sobbing*<strong>_

_**And it's not even Sunday yet. As of this writing, I have not seen His Last Vow. **_

_**So, what brought me to this lowly, sobbing state?**_

_**Third Star.**_

_**Let me put it this way: There are many things I find sad. There are a few things that will make me tear up. Occasionally, I'll find something that makes me cry.**_

_**And THEN there are the things that cause me to have full-blown sobbing meltdowns, with me howling loudly enough into my pillow one would think I was being horrifically murdered. Which, emotionally, I am. **_

_**The movie Third Star is one of those things. **_

_**I shall not divulge the plot for those who have not seen it, but it is one of the most horrifically tragic, poignant, beautiful, funny and amazing things I have ever had the pleasure of seeing. **_

_**It caused me to wander around the house all day, alternating between running for my bedroom sobbing because I was suddenly reminded of it in some way, shape, or form, or speaking in a monotone, flat voice to whoever tried to speak to me. My mom though it was hilarious. (Not the movie, my reaction.) I slammed my head on the table and tried to drown out my emotional pain with music that was far louder than strictly healthy or necessary.**_

_**So, in short, I am currently a ball of tears and sadness. **_

_**In other news, I'm now mostly not sick! Yay! I mean, I still am sick, but now instead of "let me lay in bed all day and die" sick I am "eh, I suppose I can leave my room and not pass out" sick. Three days worth of bedrest, lots of grape juice and stealing my mom's pink snuggie will work wonders, apparently. So yay. Also, I am now almost done with my history homework. I feel rather accomplished. **_

_**If any of you have a suggestion for a scene I could do with this, please do not hesitate to let me know through a review or PM. I need ideas. **_

_**Tomorrow morning I am going to re-watch Third Star. Why? Because I'm a glutton for punishment, that's why.**_

_**Please review. Please. *does sad, teary puppy eyes***_

_**Love, RainyDays-and-DayDreams**_

_***spends the next three hours sobbing***_


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